James Bond 007: Operation Forever
by DARK KNIGHT of the MOON
Summary: James Bond has returned in an adventure that tests his wits as well as his loyalty to the job. When a Russian crime syndicate steals some of the world's most powerful warheads, Bond is assigned to work with the Russians to get them back.
1. Prologue

**Prologue - The Theft **

The helicopters overhead sounded like fireworks as several heavily armed men in black coveralls raced through a remote military base somewhere on the border of Russia, killing anyone they saw that was affiliated with the Russian military. As this mysterious group of men raced outside of a barracks at the edge of the base, six black choppers landed on an excessively oversized helipad that was directly beside the barracks. The armed men quickly began assisting the passengers of the aircraft in connecting numerous steel cables to the feet of the choppers, then removed a green tarp from a massive object, revealing a substantial set of nuclear missiles. The missiles were grouped together on a massive barge that, until moments before, had been heavily guarded. The men in coveralls were terrorists, and had stormed the military base only one hour earlier, killing and injuring most of its occupants.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, several additional officers from the Russian army emerged from the barracks, approaching the choppers. They purposely tried to limit the amount of gunfire they used, because they did not wish to upset the cluster of warheads, but still wanted to prevent the apparent theft by these mysterious men. As they attempted to halt the robbery each officer was instantly mowed down by assault rifle fire from the men on the helipad, however it was evident that the men firing the guns were also careful to not disturb the warheads.

Once the last of the military were finally neutralized, the mysterious men in coveralls continued to attach the barge full of warheads to the feet of the six helicopters.

"We're ready to transport the missiles," one of the men in coveralls announced into a two-way radio, as the barge was finally connected to the helicopters. "Mr. Armonov is going to be very pleased," he said to a fellow terrorist with a smile. "One day we're all going to be very rich men."

As the confirmation was given, the group of terrorists quickly boarded the helicopters, which in turn carefully lifted in unison. As they ascended into the air, the barge was carried off into the beautiful Russian sunrise.


	2. 1 The Briefing

**Chapter 1 - The Briefing **

As the cold November wind whipped violently in the early morning hours, a tall and swarthy man steadily strolled down the London sidewalk as if nothing could possibly bother him. His finely crafted, Italian morning suit was of the utmost quality but, with the wind-pecked weather, a warm fur or suede suit and heavy coat with tailored trimming would've sufficed far better than the pristine gray attire.

Nevertheless, the wind whipped and twisted his clothes about his body but his expression was serene and undaunted. It was only when he passed the threshold of MI6 headquarters, his destination, that he was finally able to release a repressed shiver, humming low in his throat to make sure his vocal cords still worked properly.

James Bond, licensed to kill, former Commander in the Royal Navy and now a 00 agent for the highly prized British Secret Service, Bond was a man like no other. Debonair in attitude with dark good looks, he charmed women and men alike. To be in his presence was daunting, to speak with him was intimidating and to sleep with him was every woman's fantasy.

His superiors easily saw through his debonair façade but his playboy veneer worked for him. He was and always will be a man who worked hard for what he wanted, always refusing to take no for an answer, executing what he deemed was right and true, while mixing a little fun into the perils that encompassed his life.

Recently returning to London after taking a well-needed vacation at his luxurious chalet in Jamaica, Bond was anxious to continue work for her Majesty's government. Shaking the cold from his body as discreetly as possible, he hastily entered the familiarly spacious lobby of MI6, noticing many obvious associates scurrying about. It was indeed a busy morning.

Casually approaching a large elevator at the far end of the foyer, he checked his watch only to realize that he was a few minutes late for the briefing of his next mission. Rubbing his chilled nose with his thumb and index finger, he waited impatiently for the buzzer of the elevator to ring. He had been late before, not that it really bothered him, but he would never let his frequent tardiness compromise any job.

Stepping aside as several people exited the modern cage used for transcending floors, he and others rode the lift up in silence. Chuckling to himself as he thought about his last mission, he and an American CIA agent Zoë Nightshade, whom he had actually grown quite fond of, had infiltrated a terrorist outpost and, in effect, defeated the radical Chinese organization known as The Golden Eel, who were bent on starting World War III. He smiled to himself, as he was happy to be alive after what many of the most seasoned 00 agents considered an extremely dangerous assignment.

The elevator door shifted suddenly, immediately robbing Bond of his thoughts. He moved down a long, well lit corridor that led to M's office. As always before any new briefing, Bond was a little nervous, although he would never show it, as he considered it to be unprofessional. Swiftly entering the room that served as the reception area to M's office, he greeted the infamous secretary Moneypenny by blowing her a kiss.

"James!" A breathless sigh of excitement greeted him. "Good morning," the middle-aged buxom brunette pronounced with a smile, wiggling flirtatiously in her rolling chair behind her desk in the corner of the room.

"Ah, Moneypenny, darling. How are you?" Bond acknowledged with a bow.

"Just fine, 007. How was your holiday?"

"Splendid." He straightened his gray suit jacket and flashed Moneypenny a bright smile. "But superb, it would have been. _If only_ you had been there to keep me company…" he drawled debonairly.

"Yes, I'm sure that would have been wonderful. _If only_ you were sincere," she sighed earnestly. "You better go in. She's not happy that you're so late."

"She never is." Bond smiled urbanely before entering M's office.

Passing through the wooden door opposite of the one he had originally entered, and then another made of soundproof leather, he entered the office and found M behind her elaborate oak desk working.

"Thank you for finally showing up, Bond," she barked, staying focused on her work.

Not saying a word, Bond stepped forward, taking a seat in one of two visitor's chairs in front of M's desk. M was Bond's superior, Barbara Mawdsley, who certainly ran things tighter than her predecessor, Admiral Miles Messervey.

"How was your vacation, 007?" M wondered as her stern glare met Bond's. She could be no more than her early sixties, if not late fifties, and her pin-stripe attire helped camouflage her rotund figure. Her salt-and-pepper, stylish and short hair cut gave off the air of a confident woman.

"It was fine. Thank you, ma'am."

"I hope you are well rested. Now, stay quiet and pay attention," M uttered sternly, dismissing all pleasantries as she pointed a black remote control to the right wall of the office.

Instantly, a blue projection screen lowered from the ceiling. The image of a spy satellite and a list of various coordinates suddenly hovered in front of the wall. Bond looked on with great interest.

Standing from her desk and moving from out behind it, M continued. "A Russian terrorist named Orrin Armonov is the leader of a newly formed global criminal syndicate called the Iron Knights. By accessing coordinates from this Russian spy satellite, he was able to discover the location of a group of the world's largest and most powerful nuclear warheads. He has stolen all of them," M informed, pausing for a moment as she paced to the nearby buffet table to pour herself a bourbon.

Bond hung on her every word and was keen on hearing more. After a large gulp of the strong liquor, M turned off the projection screen and quickly continued the briefing.

"Those coordinates were classified Russian information. We believe the Iron Knights are heading a terrorist plot called _Operation Forever_. The details of this operation are sketchy but we think Armonov is planning to sell these warheads to someone in the Middle East. The Russians have asked for our help in recovering them and eliminating Armonov. The Iron Knights headquarters are somewhere outside of St. Petersburg but we believe they run a chemical weapons bazaar somewhere just inside the Ural Mountains. You must find this place and destroy it."

"Will there be a contact man?" Bond inquired. He usually had a colleague with missions like this.

"Your partner in this assignment is a Russian agent named Yuri Zorrovski. He's the best they have. A car will be sent for you when you arrive in Russia. You are to rendezvous tonight at the Taleon Imperial Hotel in St. Petersburg. See what you can find. Make no mistake, 007, I want Armonov found."

"Of course, M, of course. But," he ventured to say as he reclined in his leather-back chair, "how do we know the warheads haven't already been sold?"

"Because the warheads were reported missing two days ago from a military base on the outskirts of Moscow. It takes a while to move them, especially if Armonov wants to get them to the Iron Knights bazaar without suspicion. Any more questions?"

"When does my plane leave?" Bond smiled his charming smile and straightened in his chair, feet firmly planted on the speckled gray carpet.

"You're booked on the Heathrow flight 602. It leaves in six hours. Pack your bags in a hurry," M ordered as stern as ever. "And don't be late."

"Thank you, ma'am," Bond said with a grin and a nod of his head. He got up to leave the office.

"Bond." M stopped him in his tracks. "Come back to her Majesty's Secret Service in one piece," M demanded sincerely, and with a brief sigh.

Bond half turned and nodded once more to the woman he greatly admired. "I'll return," he promised, and with that, he exited the office.

Moneypenny sat waiting as he returned to the reception area. He closed the wooden door firmly shut behind him. "Well, James, here's your passport and the mission dossier. Don't forget to visit Q. He's got some items for you." She batted her thick eyelashes up at him.

"Moneypenny, you're a dream," Bond declared, giving her a hug before taking the items and walking out of the place en route to Q branch.

* * *

"Hello, Bond," Q, the Quartermaster of MI6's tech-savvy branch greeted, as he and Bond walked the long length of the messy department. Q was an aged man with wispy white hair and a genuine smile that made his pale blue eyes glow. A genius when it came to conceiving off-the-wall ideas and making them a reality, he was the one man Bond could always turn to for a tool to get him out of tough situations.

"I've got you a new wrist watch," Q stated a moment later. "As you requested and up to your specifications, it is the new model from Omega, the Seamaster Diver 300m." He handed Bond the shiny silver timepiece from inside his white lab coat pocket.

"I always wanted one of these," Bond joked, mounting the watch to his wrist.

"Pay attention, 007," Q quickly instructed as he fidgeted with what appeared to be an average-size ballpoint pen. "Now, three clicks emits a highly intensified laser beam out the front like this." Q clicked the device three times and suddenly a red beam shot out from where the ink should be ejected. "It is sufficient enough to cut locks, glass and all lower-grade metals." Q paused as Bond eyed the black-colored pen. "Right, now four clicks will turn this pen into a powerful bomb with a ten second release time. As usual 007, use this for whatever you require." Q handed the pen to Bond.

"Exploding ink pens… What will they think of next," Bond chuckled to himself.

"Moving on," Q said, growing annoyed with Bond's quips. "Now, over here we have for you a new set of skis." They bypassed various test subjects and other scientists in the midst of experimentations. Q picked up one of two long rimmed poles in both hands. "When the handles of each pole is rotated to the left ninety degrees, they release a heavy fog, acting as a smoke screen," Q instructed before releasing the fog.

"Is that all it does?" Bond laughed as he swiped at the grayish-white fog surrounding him and Q. He picked up the second pole to examine the black rubber handle.

"Will you ever grow up, 007?" He snatched the pole from the agent's hand, replacing them both along the off-white painted wall of the laboratory. Q moved on as Bond followed closely behind. "Your Lotus Esprit has been rebuilt with a new paint job and is in the garage. Try not to destroy it, yet again. As expected, it has all the usual refinements and is stocked with your stealth equipment. For this mission, it will be delivered to you in St. Petersburg when you require it. Just give the keys to the people at the airline, and before you ask," Q held up his hand, "the car does have a full tank of gasoline. Is there anything else you require?" Q asked then asked, slowly his steady pace.

"No, I believe I'm… Oh yes, I'll need a new weapon," Bond suddenly remembered.

"Quite right," Q acknowledged, strolling a few more steps before pulling a fresh Walther PPK off of a wall shelf, handing it to Bond.

Bond quickly armed himself, placing the gun inside the shoulder holster underneath his jacket. Now equipped with everything he needed, he waved a farewell hand to Q and immediately took his leave. Strutting down the hall to reach the end of the laboratory, in the direction of the adjacent garage, he pressed a few numbers into an electronic touch pad device and waited until the large, metal garage door opened and moved slowly into the ceiling.

Q watched as his favorite 00 Agent turned the corner and walked out of sight. "Good luck, 007," Q finally stated with a smile before getting back to work.


	3. 2 The Rendezvous

**Chapter 2 - The Rendezvous**

As a midnight blue Lotus Esprit S2 Turbo sped down the streets of London en route to the Heathrow Airport, Bond checked his new watch. It was two o'clock, meaning his flight to St. Petersburg was scheduled to depart in two hours. Bond had spent most of the late morning and early afternoon at his London flat packing and was even able to catch a short nap.

Dressed in a warm but casual beige colored suit, he wore his shoulder holster empty, unable to board a plane as an armed man. As Bond pulled the Lotus up to the front of the airport lobby, an elderly man dressed respectably in all black, with the Heathrow logo on his blazer, waited for him. Bond hurried out of his vehicle and tossed the man the keys.

As the elderly airport clerk clapped his hands, two young bell-boys rushed to his side. Unloading three pieces of luggage from the trunk of the Lotus, a large suitcase, an oversized duffle bag and a medium attaché case were stored on a metal trolley. While his car was driven away by the first young man, and with his bags now in tow, Bond and the elderly clerk quickly entered the building to escape the blistering wind.

Reaching the lobby, Bond checked his ticket with one of the particularly attractive flight clerks from British Airways. As soon as everything checked out, Bond grabbed his attaché case. The rest of his luggage, being equipped with metal deflectors, devices that blocked all traces of metal, like guns, from being seen and scanned by video cameras and airport security systems, was stored on the plane.

Resting at a nearby airport café, he normally would never pull out a top secret dossier in public but, as far as he was concerned, he had some time to kill before his flight. Sipping on spiced, Indian-brewed tea and making small talk with the redheaded waitress who left her number on his check, he read the file in depth, which only built on the details that M had provided in that morning's briefing, as well as a picture of the target, Orrin Armonov.

Bond scowled at the ugliness of the man's profile: a heavyset, balding Caucasian with shifty green eyes and a jagged scar on his forehead. For the sake of the mission, this would not be a face that Bond would forget for a long time.

* * *

Hours had passed, and night had fallen, as Bond had fallen asleep on the flight, though he was suddenly awoken by a strident announcement from the British Airways flight captain.

"This is your captain speaking." A deep voice boomed over the plane's intercom. "We have arrived in Russia and are preparing to touchdown in beautiful St. Petersburg within ten minutes," the captain declared in a thick British accent, only to repeat himself in Russian.

Moments later, as the plane touched down, 007's fellow travelers in the first class section began to scramble for their belongings. Bond was a bit groggy as the headache that was setting in suddenly reminded him why he hated long flights. He removed his lone carryon item, the attaché case, from the overhead bunk and slowly began to depart from the plane behind the other passengers.

Bond moved quickly to the baggage claim area and, after retrieving his luggage, was approached by a short, stocky Russian man in black coveralls, with a small silver sword design embroidered on the collar, and a gentleman's cap.

"Mr. Bond, sir." The man spoke in a heavy Russian accent, his gaze shifting from Bond's baby blues to the attaché. "I am Mikhail Klein, sent to take you to the hotel."

"Yes, they said they would send someone." Bond half smiled, handing his suitcase and duffle bag to his new chauffeur, keeping the attaché with him.

Bond politely followed the man carrying his luggage outside, where a black sedan waited. The chauffeur hurriedly opened the trunk of the car and stored the luggage, before letting Bond into the car. As soon as the driver entered, the car roared into life, racing out of the back lot of the airport en route to the casino.

The darkness of night was calming to Bond as the compact black car eased down the brightly lit streets of St. Petersburg. Bond suddenly noticed the driver had missed a turn and was becoming curious. He knew that someone sent by MI6 would never make such an unprofessional mistake. He suddenly realized that if he let the driver continue, then the Taleon Imperial Hotel would certainly not be their destination.

"Who did you say sent you to pick me up?" Bond questioned.

Recognizing that the clever 00 agent may be on to him, the driver responded nervously. "Uh, yes Sir, umm, I was asked to pick you up by," the man's voice suddenly trailed off as he glanced into the car's rear view mirror and saw Bond pulling his Walther from the attaché case.

"Alright pull over at the next available side street," Bond ordered.

The car continued on a ways, then suddenly came to a gloomy, barely visible side street. With a hard right turn, it raced into the access and instantly stalled. The driver tensed up as Bond pressed the Walther hard against his neck.

"Now, get out," Bond demanded, motioning with his gun. "And no tricks."

The driver opened his car door cautiously, then removing his seat belt, slowly started to exit the car. Bond kept his gun locked on the man, watching intently to make sure he didn't try anything. The driver raised up keeping his hands in the air, then without warning he whipped around in a furious one-hundred-eighty degree turn, chucking the gun from Bond's hand. Bond kicked the back door into the driver, causing him to fall backward, then lunged on top of him. The two men rolled furiously on the ground, wrestling to overpower each other.

The driver punched Bond in the face, causing the poor agent to momentarily lose concentration. He then pulled a knife from out of his shoe and began straddling Bond, trying to cut his throat. Bond held the driver back with all his might, as the knife was inching closer and closer to his throat. In a final desperate attempt, Bond kneed the driver in the groin, causing him to lose the knife.

Bond threw the driver off of him and scrambled for the knife. Grabbing it, he rose to his feet, kicking the driver in the face multiple times until he was presumed unconscious. Bond got back in the car and began to start the engine, but from out of nowhere, the driver came again. Not taking any chances, Bond gripped the knife and stabbed the driver in the chest. With that the driver gasped his final breath and fell to the ground. Bond rolled his body behind a set of nearby bushes and returned to the car. Starting the engine, Bond turned out of the side road and began to drive toward the hotel.

* * *

About an hour later, Bond pulled the black sedan into a spacious parking lot that was overlooked by an impressively luxurious lodge, The Taleon Imperial Hotel. The regal fountains out front were outdone only by the elegance of the bright illuminations of the place. At first glance, one knew that the Taleon was surely one of St. Petersburg's finest lodging establishments.

From out of the car Bond came, removing his bags from the trunk with great force. As he walked towards the entrance of the hotel, holding tightly to his luggage, he was greeted by one of the concierges, a large man in a finely pressed tuxedo with tails.

"Hello, my good man," Bond greeted, handing over the luggage. "Take care of that for me, will you?" he finished, handing the man some Russian currency.

Entering the spacious, clean and nearly empty reception hall, through a pair of stylishly massive brass doors, Bond approached a crow of a woman that was sitting behind an elaborate oak desk in the center of the hall. Bond mumbled something to her in Russian and as she responded, she gave him his room key. Placing it inside his suit jacket, he wandered toward the end of the hall, to an elevator that was surrounded by large marble sculptures on either side. Entering, he rode the lift up to the second floor and momentarily hunted to find room 212.

As he came upon his room, he slid the room key into the corresponding electronic slot and entered. The room was the typical luxury suite, with a roomy personal bathroom to his left, complete with Jacuzzi, a big screen television set in the front of the room and an elegant King-sized bed in the center that held the freshly delivered luggage. Bond sighed to himself, opening the attaché case, followed by the oversized duffle bag and then his suitcase to check for evidence of tampering. Everything seemed in order, so he quickly took off his suit jacket, tossing his gun from its shoulder holster onto the bed. He removed a cigarette from its black gunmetal case and lit it, proceeding to undress.

From out of the suitcase he pulled his tuxedo. Hanging the neatly compacted suit on the bathroom door, he then entered the bathroom to wash his face. It was almost time to meet his contact, the Russian agent that was to help him on his mission. Instructions said to meet him in the casino at precisely ten o'clock pm. Bond checked his watch, nine thirty. He knew he had to get a move on. Splashing water on his face, he brushed his jet black hair and poured himself a glass of the hotel's complimentary brandy before getting dressed.

* * *

The casino's bustle could be heard from the reception hall next door. As Bond entered the grandeur of this private club, he gazed around the Baroque styled hall. From the crowded Baccarat tables in the front to the Poker and Blackjack tables in the center, and even the giant sized Roulette boards and video machines near the back of this magnificent establishment, this was one of the finest casino's that Bond had ever visited.

He strolled casually over to one of the poker tables and took a seat. Across from him was a tall and voluptuous, curly haired brunette in an elegant red dinner dress. Bond was dealt his cards and the woman hers. They were playing three rounds of a simple five card draw. After laying the first hand, a small crowd that had formed around the table became excited as the lovely woman apparently won the first round.

The second hand was dealt as the crowd grew quiet. Bond discarded three cards, and the woman two. Picking up their alternates, the cards were finally played. The crowd moaned in awe as Bond had won this round. Bond flashed a handsome smile to his opponent, who scoffed in anger at Bond's victory.

As the final hand was dealt, the crowd grew especially tense. This was in fact the deciding round. Bond laid his hand down, as the crowd grew nervous waiting for the woman's hand. Bond had a full house. The woman laid down her hand, cursing in Russian as she only had a diamond flush.

"Diamonds are forever," Bond said arrogantly.

The woman stormed away from the table, taking solace at the bar at the left side of the casino. Bond quickly arose from the table, following her. When he arrived at the bar, the bartender was preparing a glass of spiced vodka for her.

"So, come here often?" Bond joked.

"You are very good at poker, Mr.?" The woman acknowledged flirtatiously.

"My name is Bond… James Bond. And you are?"

"A very busy woman Mr. Bond," she stated casually, taking her glass of vodka and leaving the casino.

"I'm sure you are," Bond chuckled to himself, as the bartender approached him.

"Something for you?" the bartender spoke in Russian.

"Ah, yes, a medium dry vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred," Bond replied in a brisk Russian dialect, while sampling a raw goose foie gras from a tray at the bar.

The bartender began to prepare the drink, while a tall, built, balding, freshly shaven man in a white tuxedo approached the bar. He stared Bond up and down, shooting him a suspicious look, then finally speaking.

"Russian nights are cold," the man uttered.

"But Russian women are warm," Bond replied surprised, having found his contact man. "Yuri Zorrovski I presume?"

"The same. And you are James Bond. I watched your little encounter with the woman. Impressive Mr. Bond, but you are meeting me a bit late. We were to meet at ten o'clock. It is now ten twenty-five."

"I looked for you when I came in Yuri," Bond countered, sipping his fresh martini as the bartender handed it to him.

"Ah, yes, but perhaps your eyes were blinded by that charming woman you were besting in poker. Am I right Mr. Bond?" Yuri Zorrovski laughed.

Bond smiled, putting his hand on Yuri's shoulder. "Perhaps comrade, we should find a more private setting to talk things over," Bond proposed, downing the last of his martini in a furious gulp.

"I couldn't agree more," Yuri consented, as the two men walked out of the casino to find some place to talk.


	4. 3 Getting Down To Business

**Chapter 3 – Getting Down To Business**

The next morning Bond and his Russian comrade, Yuri Zorrovski, sat at a private breakfast table, in the Taleon's lavish dining hall. Surrounded by a gourmet Russian feast, they continued the conversation they had started the night before regarding the mission.

"I must say Yuri, I'm at a loss as to why your government came to mine for help," Bond wondered.

"We Russians are not stupid people James, we know that it's the Brits like you that are the best at catching scum like Armonov. We trained him. Two decades ago, he was a top KGB agent, but in two decades, terrorism has become a very lucrative venture. He's mad. His entire operation's purpose is to form an alliance with the Middle East, to show the terrorist that mother Russia is their friend."

"And as a show of good faith, he's offering up those warheads. So, what's his motive?" Bond questioned, taking a bite of his Russian omelet.

"Money, power. This man is greedy, like a terrorist version of Stalin," Zorrovski declared, eating some grenki.

"And you say that your government can't find the Iron Knights weapons bazaar?"

"We've tried. Men have died trying to discover this place. We know it's in the Ural Mountains, but we can't find it. Armonov makes us look bad. It's no secret that Russia has nuclear and chemical weapons, but when terrorists try to exploit this, it makes us look shady and the rest of the world starts asking questions."

"So where do we start?" Bond uttered impatiently.

"I have an inside man, very connected in the international terrorist community. He might be able to get us into the Iron Knights headquarters."

"Let's meet him," Bond announced, finishing his meal."

"Quite right Mr. Bond, quite right," Zorrovski agreed, as the two men left the breakfast table.

* * *

Moments later a familiar midnight blue Lotus Esprit entered the hotel's front parking lot. Bond and Zorrovski were waiting by the entrance as Q approached, handing Bond the keys.

"Good morning Mr. Bond," Q affirmed with a smile.

"All the way from England Q, now that's service with a smile," Bond teased, not expecting Q to appear.

Without warning and from out of nowhere, a red convertible Bugatti pulled up with a beautiful blonde at the wheel. Q proceeded to enter the car and without so much as a farewell, the car sped off, disappearing somewhere down the road.

"Lucky man," Zorrovski said, laughing.

"Yes, Q does get around," Bond quipped as they hurriedly entered the Lotus and began to drive away.

* * *

The Lotus hummed quietly as it careened through the streets of St. Petersburg, finally veering off into an empty lot. Bond and Zorrovski quickly got out of the car and ambled across the street, entering one of the numerous aggressive pubs in the city's business district. Zorrovski led the way, taking Bond to meet a fellow contact man that had apparently cemented himself in the Russian underworld.

The bar was atrocious. Obese, bald, middle-aged Russian men were boisterously drinking the hardest of hard liquors as wave after wave of smoke clouded the room, like a foggy swamp. Bond followed Zorrovski to a tiny back room of the place, where a short, bearded man in a wrinkled, vintage suit was waiting at a table in the center of the room. Bond stood in the far corner of the room while Zorrovski closed the door. Pulling up a chair, Zorrovski sat across from the man behind the table.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the man spoke heatedly to the two agents.

"Been a long time comrade," Zorrovski uttered excitedly. "This is my man from British Intelligence, James Bond. We're tracking a terrorist. The infamous ex-KGB Orrin Armonov."

"Ah, Yuri, it is good to see you. Stop me if you've heard this one… Two spies walk into a bar," the man spoke, then laughed to himself. "Oh never mind, Mr. Bond, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Gregori Diminev Arkarovich, owner of the place. If you haven't figured it out yet, I use my establishment for, shall we say, other purposes. The bar is a front for infiltrating terrorist and turncoats to my country. Now what do you wanna know?"

"Where are the Iron Knights headquarters?" Bond asked sternly. "We know they're in St. Petersburg, but where?"

"So you want Armonov? What's he done this time, smuggled anthrax across foreign borders?" Arkarovich assumed with a laugh.

"No. He's stolen warheads from our country comrade. The Iron Knights plan to sell them," Zorrovski informed.

"Wow, what a plan," Arkarovich remarked sarcastically. "You boys are in luck. I just had dealings with the Iron Knights. A rather large man came in to see me about some money. He's Armonov's personal muscle. I'll give you the location of the place, but that's as far as I go. They have guns and their place is heavily guarded. I hate guns, yet I capture terrorists for living."

"How ironic," Bond commented.

"Alright, the headquarters are in a warehouse at the west end of the city. I'll give you the address," Arkarovich promised, jotting it down on a yellow slip of paper. "I hope you boys have a plan."

"I'm sure we'll think of something," Bond assured, taking the address, shaking Arkarovich's hand and walking out the door ahead of Zorrovski.

* * *

That night two figures, clad completely in black stealth garb, crept swiftly, silently through the cover of pitched darkness. Moving through a long back alley, they approached a heavily guarded warehouse, as one of them lit a small strike-anywhere match to check the time. It was precisely midnight. The faint illumination from the match revealed the recognizable faces of James Bond and Yuri Zorrovski. They were going to break into the warehouse to see what information, if any, they could find.

Equipping their night vision goggles, they moved cautiously to the back door of the place. Bond quickly snuck up behind a surprisingly well dressed and very large guard that was gripping an unmistakable AEK-971 assault rifle. With a quick chop to the back of the neck, the guard was instantly neutralized. Stealing the rifle, Bond threw it over his shoulder, strapping it to his back.

"There's always the back door," Bond whispered the retort.

As they stepped inside, they entered a brightly lit, overly cramped hallway. Instantly, the agents heard loud chatter, a speech, that was radiating from another room of the place. They moved next to a partially cracked door and peered inside.

Bond recognized Orrin Armonov from the picture. He was almost uglier in person. Situated behind a podium in the center of the massively capacious main room of the facility, furiously waving his hands, the man was spouting in English about their plans.

Bond noticed the many members of the Iron Knights, men and women, seated audience-like in a circle around the podium. They were all clad in black coveralls, sporting the familiar sword design on the collar. Bond suddenly realized that the man that had tried to fetch him from the airport was one of the Iron Knights. They were onto him. Somehow they knew that he was in Russia. Was the mission compromised? Bond couldn't be sure. For now he simply listened to the speech, watching Zorrovski, wandering if they might be onto him as well.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, the neutralized guard from the back door appeared behind the two men. Grabbing Zorrovski, the goon shoved him into the partially cracked door, forcing it to slam shut. Bond reached for his Walther, but was abruptly thrown hard into a wall. Zorrovski elbowed the man in the face, and as the man momentarily leaned over, finished by kicking him in the buttocks, forcing him to topple to the floor. Bond steadily gripped his gun, pointing it towards the man.

"Get off the floor," Bond ordered the guard, as Zorrovski collected himself.

Unexpectedly, the hallway door flew open. Standing in the doorway was the man himself, Orrin Armonov. The only member of the Iron Knights to not be clad in coveralls, he was dressed in a finely-crafted gray, three-piece suit. A stout and physically imposing man, he looked as if he would be a worthy adversary in hand to hand combat.

Aiming his weapon in the direction of Armonov, Bond noticed the man's pronounced scar on his forehead, a feature that only made the foe more menacing. Armonov smiled at te two agents with great confidence. The two agents gasped, almost in unison, as they saw what looked like a small army approaching from the other room.

"You're trespassing, fools," Armonov notified Bond and Zorrovski with great anger in his voice, before turning to his guard. "Auric, how did these imbeciles get in?"

Before the goon could answer, Bond exchanged the Walther in his hand for the assault rifle. Pulling it from his back, he aimed it towards his foes as Zorrovski briskly darted for the back door.

"We were just leaving," Bond pronounced with a smile, backing up toward the door.

As Zorrovski hastily exited the building, Bond followed with just enough time to slam the door behind him. The agents raced back through the alley from which they came. As they came out the other side, they swiftly crossed the street, running into an abandoned lot where the Lotus was parked. Entering the car, they urgently zoomed out of the lot. All at once, three motorcycles rushed out of the adjacent alley in hot pursuit.

As the car sped down the road with the motorbikes trailing closely behind, Zorrovski peeked out the passenger window, aiming the assault rifle that Bond had stolen. As he fired, the three Iron Knights on the motorcycles began returning fire with small machine pistols. The car swerved left onto another street as the gunfire continued. Suddenly, two small, silver tubes protruded from out of the car's number plates. As a motorcycle raced up to the rear of the evading vehicle, the ground was sprayed with some thick, slippery, black liquid; oil slick. The pursuing bike slid out of control, crashing into a nearby fire hydrant, sending its rider soaring through the air.

The car continued to race down the street, as the remaining bikes firmly pursued. A cache of explosive charges shot out of the Lotus' bumper, littering the street. As the motorbikes approached at varying speeds, the charges detonated, but each bike swiftly maneuvered out of harms way. The Lotus turned sharply into a wide alley and sped up. As the bikes trailed far behind, Zorrovski continued firing the assault rifle. The men on the motorcycles caught up to the escaping car, shooting their armaments. Suddenly a bullet ricocheted, blowing out the Lotus' left rear tire. Bond pressed a button on the car's control panel and instantly the tire had re-inflated.

Coming to the end of the alley, the car pulled out, making a hard right. Unexpectedly, one of the motorcycles appeared further up ahead. Apparently the bike had left the alley and circled around, cutting Bond and Zorrovski off. As the car sped up in an attempt to play chicken, a bulky silver missile box protruded from out of the top of the car. As the car and the bike accelerated closer towards one another, the Lotus slammed on its brakes, coming to a stop. Several small projectiles shot out of the missile box, firing toward the approaching motorbike. The missiles contacted the bike with great fury, causing the motorcycle to explode with scorching fury, sending its flaming rider flying into a nearby storefront window.

The car accelerated fully as the remaining motorcycle had caught up to it. Turning left onto an avenue, the car swerved to and fro as Zorrovski continued the gun battle with the man on the motorcycle. As Zorrovski fired, a bullet caught the rider in the chest, knocking him off the bike. The Lotus slowed down considerably, as Zorrovski made sure that their quarry was vanquished. Knowing that it was all over, the car resumed normal speed.

As the Lotus continued casually down the cold St. Petersburg avenue en route to the hotel, Bond looked in the rear view mirror at the damage caused by the chase. He knew that now it would be nearly impossible to get close to Armonov. He was trying to forget, at least until he could find M, that the Iron Knights knew of his coming to the city, before he had even arrived. He had deduced that the man that had tried to pick him up was indeed one of the Iron Knights. And now, Armonov had seen the faces of the men that were trying to stop him. The mission was slowly becoming compromised. For now at least, Bond needed time to think.


	5. 4 Where To Go From Here

**Chapter 4 – Where To Go From Here**

In Moscow, at the headquarters of the Foreign Intelligence Service, British and Russian Intelligence had called a special meeting about the current status of the mission regarding Operation Forever. The meeting was underway and had gotten off to an unpleasant start. M stood along the far right wall of an office that was similar to MI6 headquarters. Addressing Bond, Zorrovski, and a host of British and Russian Secret Intelligence superiors, she tried to assess the situation.

"007, Mr. Zorrovski. We can't figure out how they knew of your going to St. Petersburg. There has to be a leak in Russian intelligence," M said gravely.

"A leak in our Intelligence?" the stout Director of Russian Intelligence fumed irritably. "Are you really going to suggest that we have a mole in our organization? You British take such pride in policing the world, yet you can't take responsibility when something goes wrong," he concluded with a laugh.

The portly British Prime Minister stood aghast at the argument that was brewing. He had heard enough. He wasn't about to let a quarrel get started, fearing it would be counter-productive to the meeting. "That's enough. Now regardless of who's to blame for this leak, something has happened. M, what do you suggest our agents do?" he posed, staring down Bond and Zorrovski with great respect.

"We have no choice but to continue with the mission. They have seen you 007, is this correct?"

Bond situated himself in the chair he was sitting in, at a corner of the room. "Yes ma'am, Mr. Zorrovski and I saw Armonov, just as surely as we see you," Bond assured, glancing to Zorrovski at the adjacent corner of the room. "If he sees us again, he'll know our faces."

"Alright," M said, addressing Russian Intelligence. "Do we take these men off assignment?"

"Relieve them of their duties? We haven't the time to brief new agents," the Director of Russian Intelligence posed. "These agents stay on."

"Alright," M continued. "What about disguises or aliases?"

"With great respect ma'am," Bond spoke to M. "We're onto him. He frequents the gambling hall at our hotel. We can get him without the use of any cover. We just need more time."

"I trust you Bond. I always have. Stay on him, but maybe it's best that you two part ways until you're ready for the final phase of the mission," M ordered, granting the agents their requests to continue the operation.

"You mean infiltrating the bazaar?" Zorrovski spoke up.

"Precisely," M informed.

"Is that it?" the Director of Russian Intelligence scowled. "You're going to let these men continue, even with their mission compromised?"

"These men are 00's. They're driven, and I'm sure if they say they can do it, they will," M countered.

"And if they don't stop these so-called Iron Knights, those warheads could start World War III. Yes, we're aware of the consequences Sir," the British Prime Minister assured.

"Take caution gentlemen," M warned the agents. If they are onto you, then you're mission just became more difficult."

"Understood," Bond and Zorrovski uttered in unison.

"You're dismissed. Return to St. Petersburg, and don't muck it up again." M informed as the two double agents walked out of the room.

* * *

That night at the Taleon Imperial Hotel, Bond returned to the casino, once again flaunting his finely pressed tuxedo. He noticed that the place was as busy as ever, yet crawling with unknown faces. His eyes desperately scanned the room for a familiar face. He suddenly saw the beautiful Russian brunette, whom he had encountered before. She was standing at the bar, drinking her usual, vodka. Bond rushed to her, but was careful not to seem too desperate. As he approached the bar, she immediately took notice.

"Back for more I see," she pronounced flirtatiously. "Don't you ever quit Mr. Bond?"

"Never. Quitting is simply something I'm not very good at. You're here every night to. Is it the gambling you love, or just the atmosphere?"

"It is the lifestyle Mr. Bond. A woman like me can't be held down."

"No, I'm sure you can't," Bond stated casually.

"What, you don't believe me?" she smirked.

"Oh, I believe you whole heartedly. It's just that I can see that you're a woman who likes to live dangerously."

"Why don't I prove it to you. I'll have the maître d' deliver champagne and caviar for two to my suite. It's Room 202."

"That would be lovely," Bond confirmed with a slight chuckle.

"Why are you laughing?" she demanded playfully.

"Well, it occurs to me my dear, that we haven't been properly introduced. You know my name, but I'm at a loss for yours."

"I am Roza Somovich. My family was involved in the hotel industry. At one point, my father owned most of the lodges in the greater part of northern Russia. This place is privately owned. If you haven't guessed it by now, I am very rich Mr. Bond."

"Very nice. So what's all this? Casino's and all the vodka you can drink… Playing with daddy's money?"

"Well, as I said, I'm a woman who can't be held down."

"You'll have to show me just exactly what you mean," Bond declared.

"Very well. Shall we say two hours?" Roza invited, sipping the last of her vodka.

"Sounds delightful. Two hours then in Suite 202," Bond accepted with a smile, before walking over one of the baccarat tables.

* * *

Later, after winning a rousing game of Punto Banco, Bond trudged off the hotel's elevator, having reached the second floor. As he sauntered down the stark hallway, he approached Suite 202, noticing that the door was opened only slightly.

"Roza, are you here?" Bond called out, entering the room. "Roza, darling?" As he moved about the room, he noticed a bottle of chilled vintage Dom Perignon on a night table next to a spread of beluga caviar and crackers. Instinctively pulling his Walther PPK, he peered into the dark and empty bathroom. He continued through the suite, and as he stepped out onto the suite's balcony, he saw her.

She was downstairs, entering a burgundy town car with a large black suitcase, leaving the hotel through a back lot. Without warning, Bond felt the barrel of a pistol press against his back. He could tell by the size of the barrel that it wasn't a large handgun, probably not even a semi-automatic.

"Drop the gun and turn around," the thug ordered, backing away from Bond, whilst still aiming his gun at him.

Bond quickly complied, gently tossing the Walther to the carpeted floor, then slowly turning around. As the thug bent down to pick up Bond's weapon, Bond simply booted him in the face. The thug's concentration was suddenly broken, causing him to drop his firearm. As Bond reached to recover his own gun, the goon rapidly returned to his feet and lunged for Bond. Bond quickly knelt down, catching and grabbed the goon, while gripping his left leg and right shoulder and feverishly hoisting him over the edge of the balcony. An intense scream was followed only by a loud thud. As he finally reclaimed his own gun, Bond placed it back inside his jacket. Straightening his tie and dusting himself off, he scooped some caviar onto a cracker and briefly indulged before leaving the hotel room once and for all.


	6. 5 Keeping Your Enemies Close

**Chapter 5 – Keeping Your Enemies Close**

The next morning found Bond in his suite. Half dressed, he sat at the foot of the bed, conversing with Zorrovski via cell phone.

"That's right, I am very suspicious of the girl. I went to her room and a rather burly chap held me at gunpoint. Let's just say he went a little overboard," Bond informed.

"Well, where was the girl," Zorrovski replied from the other end of the line.

"I noticed her leaving from the back of the hotel. She entered a red car with a suitcase."

"Do you think she could be in league with our man?" Zorrovski suggested.

"It's a possibility. What did you find out from your man, Arkarovich?"

"He told me that the Russian Government isn't too trusting of our mission. Someone in my organization has contracted the Russian mafia to assassinate Armonov. It looks like we have competition James," Zorrovski said, sounding disgusted.

"We'll finish the job Yuri. I'm going to hit the casino again tonight because my gut tells me there are answers there. There were too many different people there last night. It can't be coincidence," Bond said, moving from the bed to look at himself in the bathroom mirror.

"I'll scour the local bars. We need to find the location of that weapons bazaar."

"Armonov has got many people under his employ. Someone's bound to know something."

"I'm on it 007. We'll be in touch."

"Right," Bond agreed, ending the call and tossing the phone on the bed.

They were close to finding Armonov. Hell, they knew how to find him. The trouble was that their cover was blown, and they still needed to find the weapons bazaar. Bond quickly buttoned an ivory-colored silk shirt and wrapped a lengthy tie around his neck, tying it. Strapping on his loaded shoulder holster, he completed the ensemble with a jacket and, looking himself over once more, left the hotel room.

As he moved towards the elevator he passed through a door leading to the stairwell, preferring to save time. Once down the stairs, he entered the reception hall and approached the receptionist that was on duty for the day. Mumbling something in Russian, Bond notified the man that he would be gone for most of the day, then exited the hotel en route to his Lotus parked out front.

* * *

Zorrovski moved down the cold St. Petersburg sidewalk, hurriedly but cautiously following a suspicious looking gentleman. It was two o'clock in the afternoon; he had been tracking the man all day. The mysterious man, cloaked in a long, black trench coat, had moved through nearly every pub in St. Petersburg. He was definitely a terrorist and, as near as Zorrovski could figure, was rallying his fellow terrorists for a meeting. Zorrovski hadn't figured out where they were meeting, or with who, but he had heard that a very impatient group of Pakistanis were waiting for a certain sale of some missiles. Moreover, it even seemed that the sale was going to take place somewhere in the Ural Mountains.

Zorrovski sat quietly across the street from his quarry, as he noticed the man finally enter yet another tavern. With that, Zorrovski loped across the street, casually entering the bar. As he entered the smoky establishment, the strong odor of liquor overtook him. The place was like every other bar he'd been to in his life, rowdy, deafening and violent. He struggled to look past the veil of nicotine and bodies, trying to find his target. He looked to the left, to the right, then finally saw the tall man in the unmistakable trench coat enter through a door in the back, adjacent to the entrance. He wandered to the back, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Moving past a group of brawny men at the rear of the bar, he came to the door. Entering the small, unknown room, he stumbled upon a meeting between six shady looking men. Noticing his trench coated quarry, he pulled his gun of personal choice, the Makarov PM pistol.

"Who the hell are you?" the trench coated man demanded. "This is a private meeting."

"I want some information," Zorrovski insisted, aiming his gun.

"Oh," the man in the trench coat mocked. "He wants information boys," he continued, laughing towards his colleagues. "We've got a tip for you man," he addressed Zorrovski.

Suddenly, the man in the trench coat clapped his hands. No sooner did the five supplementary terrorists pick up crowbars from a back table and move towards Zorrovski, backing him into a corner. He got off one shot, striking a man in the head, but before he could fire again, another terrorist lunged for him, butting the gun from his hands. As the gun soared from his hands, the trench coated man caught it, almost effortlessly.

Zorrovski looked on, wide eyed, as the four remaining thugs moved closer towards him with their armaments.

Unexpectedly the man in the trench coat halted them. "Stop. This intruder needs to be taught a lesson." Moving from behind his armed colleagues, he stood directly in front of Zorrovski, aiming the gun at him. "Who are you?"

"I'm with Russian Intelligence."

"Of course you are," the man in the trench coat affirmed. "And you want to stop the big bad terrorists," he teased with a laugh.

"If I don't report, it will be on your head. I have some powerful friends," Zorrovski spoke, trying to sound threatening.

"Oh I'm sure you do. Well, this will teach you to not put your nose where it doesn't belong. Goodbye Sir," the trench coated man declared, firing a shot at minimum range.

The bullet snapped as it entered Zorrovski's skull. As Zorrovski dropped lifelessly to the floor, his forehead oozed with blood. As the man in the trench coat threw down Zorrovski's pistol, he and the five other terrorists immediately left the room, turning out the light and closing the door behind them.

* * *

Hours later, the Lotus hummed quietly, entering the recognizable Taleon Hotel parking lot. As the car parked, Bond quickly exited, removing his tuxedo from the back seat. He had been out most of the day touring St. Petersburg, secretly spying on activities at the warehouse headquarters of The Iron Knights. So far it seemed that all was quiet. Frustrated at the lack of leads, Bond entered the hotel with formal wear in tow. Bypassing the receptionist desk and entering the bathroom at the corner of the reception hall, he went into one of the private stalls, quickly removing his day suit. After a few moments of changing attire, he replaced his neck tie with a jet black bow tie, giving himself a quick once over and finally leaving the restroom.

A minute later he entered the familiar casino. As usual there were many people crowding the tables, only they weren't betting tables. The entire hall had been transformed from a beautiful gambling hall into an equally lavish and festively decorated banquet hall. Bond checked his watch, then lit a cigarette. It was eight o'clock in the evening and time to start searching for answers. He moved to the bar at the left of the room that was still open to those who fancied a drink with the sumptuous meal that was prepared. A large crowd bustled in the center of the hall. After ordering a martini, Bond finished his cigarette and waited for his beverage. Once he received it, he sauntered over to see what all the commotion was. Tasting the drink, he blended seamlessly into the crowd. Everyone was paying attention to a man behind a podium at the back of the room. Bond recognized the man. It was Orrin Armonov, dressed in a flashy tuxedo and about to make a speech.

"My friends, I am very proud to announce the twenty-fifth anniversary of our beautiful hotel. As the owner, I have always strived to provide our guests with the finest of accommodations. My gratitude goes out to those who have supported the Taleon over the years. Please help yourself to the cocktails at the banquet tables," Armonov declared with a fake smile, suddenly leaving the podium to mingle with the crowd.

As the crowd responded with uproarious applause, Bond's eyes widened with surprise. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Orrin Armonov was the owner of the Taleon Imperial Hotel? It didn't make sense. How could he not have known this before? He quietly sipped his martini, trying to pinpoint Armonov in the crowd. Suddenly it seemed that Armonov was approaching Bond. As Armonov confronted him, Bond kept cool.

"Ah, Mr. Bond. And how long have you been staying with us?" Armonov questioned

with a twinkle in his eye that only accented his hideous scar.

"Oh I think you know. Haven't you been following me since my arrival in St.

Petersburg?" Bond uttered, using the direct approach.

"Come now Mr. Bond… Spying on the guests of my hotel? That wouldn't be proper."

"Right," Bond said with great sarcasm, ending the nonsensical conversation in favor of

more important dialogue. "It would seem you cleaned up pretty good in the hotel business. Twenty-five years is a lot of profiteering."

"Mr. Bond how dare you," Armonov uttered with a scowl. "I am no profiteer, only, well, a man has to make a living. And what is it that you do for a living?"

"I'm with Universal Exports. Actually, I'm here on business."

"I see. Maybe I could tear you away from your work. Allow me to invite you to my private ski lodge for the weekend. I would very much like the opportunity to take care of you personally," Armonov chuckled foully.

"I'm sure you would. Thank you Mr. Armonov, that would be lovely. It just so happens that I brought my ski's for recreation."

"Oh, that's fine Mr. Bond. All work and no play you know," Armonov smiled, sampling one of the cocktails from the banquet.

As the two men continued conversing, an ever suspicious man in a long, black trench coat came from out of the crowd. Strafing to approach Armonov, he rapidly whispered something in his ear. Bond grimaced at the man, studying him, trying to pick up on anything he could hear. He heard nothing, but Armonov suddenly looked very disturbed by whatever it was he had just been told.

"I apologize Mr. Bond, will you excuse me? I have some business matters to attend to. I'll see you at the ski lodge. Please, enjoy the refreshment," Armonov pronounced, before hurriedly making his way through the crowd and disappearing.

"I intend to," Bond said with a grim smile, snatching a cocktail from the banquet then leaving to return to his room for the night.


	7. 6 The Girl Returns

**Chapter 6 – The Girl Returns**

Moments later, Bond walked down the empty hall to his room. As he approached the appropriate door, he swiped the room key into the corresponding electronic slot, opening it. The room was black as pitch. He tinkered with the light switch until bright illumination overtook the place. Locking the door and moving about, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a lonely leather chair in the corner. He entered the spacious bathroom, turning on the light. Moving toward the Jacuzzi tub, he rolled up a shirt sleeve and turned on the water, drawing himself a bath.

As Bond went back to the bedroom, he took off his shoulder holster and placed it on the bed. After kicking off his shoes and socks, he removed his shirt and pants, folding each neatly and placing them with the jacket. Pouring himself a scotch from the mini bar, he gradually returned to the bathroom. As he removed his lone undergarment and eased into the bath, the water overtook his tense body. Taking a final drink of scotch, he leaned his head back, closing his eyes. A wonderful wave of relaxation suddenly overwhelmed him.

A few moments of silence went by as Bond began to doze. A rough day had been had, not as forceful as some, but rough nonetheless. From out of nowhere, a tall and voluptuous, curly haired brunette in a man's bathrobe entered the bathroom, gripping Bond's pistol in her hand. It was Roza Somovich. She stayed very rigid, attempting to be as silent as possible. Moving closer to the tub, she watched Bond breathe, his shaggy chest rising and falling in a tranquil motion. She remained silent, finally aiming the gun directly at Bond.

As she prepared to fire, Bond called out to her, scaring her.

"Roza, my dear girl, if you're going to kill me, I hope you removed the safety first."

"James, I…" Roza's words were lost to the sudden apprehension that came over her.

"Yes?" James condescended with a brief laugh.

Roza stayed quiet. Smiling nervously, she moved about, placing the gun on the vanity beside the Jacuzzi.

"How did you get in here?" Bond wondered, narrowing his eyes his with contempt. "And why are you in my bathrobe?"

"I must confess James, I was here before you came back. I took a shower, realized I had nothing to wear, so I commandeered your robe and hid in the closet."

"Well, I see you made yourself at home, but why do you want to kill me?" Bond asked smugly.

"I'm a freelance assassin James, it's what I do."

"Really, I thought you were a hotel heiress?" Bond wondered in surprise. She didn't strike him as a very professional killer, leaving the safety on his gun.

"No, that part is true. But I'm working for a man, the owner of this hotel. He pays me to solve his problems"

"Ah yes, so you are in cahoots with Armonov. Is that why you skipped out on our private rendezvous? That man in your room was not a very good substitute, although he fell pretty hard for me and the caviar was mediocre."

"Yes, well I do have my orders," she declared irately, reclaiming the gun, removing the safety, and aiming it towards Bond.

"If you do decide to kill me, please give me my dignity. At least allow me to get dressed."

"Yes of course, but no tricks," Roza ordered, keeping the gun set on Bond.

Bond smiled and immediately arose from the tub. Grabbing a towel from the brass rack on the wall, he began drying off and wrapped it around his waist. As he finally exited the bath, Bond paid attention to his gun as it tracked his movements. He suddenly stopped, looked down for a moment, and then with great haste, gripped the towel from his waste, pitching it upward towards the gun. As Roza hesitated to respond to the distraction, Bond darted towards her. Shoving her into the wall, he knocked the weapon from her grasp. The gun dropped to the floor and loudly ejected a bullet. He swiftly grabbed her hips, pinning her to the wall.

"James, what the hell are you doing?" Roza remarked, aroused by Bond's quickness, wrapping her legs around his naked frame.

"Taking advantage of the situation," he affirmed, smiling urbanely and initiating a passionate kiss.

Roza started to fight off his advances, after all she was being paid a hefty sum to kill James Bond. As the kiss intensified, she felt Bond's hands move about her body. The pleasure felt too good to struggle any longer. Giving in, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into her. Gripping her hips, he carried her to the tub. Releasing her from his clutches, he smiled at her momentarily as she removed her robe and entered the bath. He hurriedly dimmed the lights and joined her.

* * *

A few hours later, the bed sheets were tossed gently to and fro, as Bond and Roza kissed softly. Bond halted the embrace, glancing romantically into Roza's eyes.

"Oh James. Never have I had a man like you," Roza declared, smiling with elation.

"Roza darling, you have a choice. You don't have to work for terrorists," Bond countered seriously.

"James, I only work for Armonov because if I don't do as he says, he'll kill me. We entered into an agreement long ago that I would be paid whatever I wanted if I worked for him."

"So is that all he pays you for, killing?"

"Well that, and for what we just did," Roza uttered with a smile.

"So he's a lover to," Bond said with great contempt in his voice.

"Yes, but nothing like you," Roza assured, trying to comfort Bond.

"Roza if you keep this up, one day he'll kill you," Bond barked heatedly. "He's a sick man who cares for nothing but his own personal gain. You've got to get out of this somehow."

"Can you protect me?" Roza asked with fear in her eyes.

"I'll do what I can, if you'll help me stop him."

"I don't really know anything. He keeps me in the dark. I just do my job and collect what he pays me. I cringe when I think of what he'll do to me when I tell him I failed to kill you."

"I doubt he'll be too hard on you. He probably thought you'd fail anyway, because just earlier he invited me to his lodge for the weekend."

"Oh he'll try something there, no doubt. He only invites people there when he's feeling particularly gruesome," Roza warned.

"I'll be careful."

"You'll be dead. I've worked with some of his henchmen. These Iron Knights are a very dangerous organization."

"Yes, I'm quite sure they are, but I wouldn't be very good at my job if I wasn't prepared."

"And what exactly is it that you do James?" Roza inquired, smiling.

"I work for Universal Exports."

"I'm sure," Roza pronounced with a chuckle. "Nice try Mr. Bond, but I don't think an export man would be tracking terrorists. What is it that you really do?"

"I'm involved with the British government. Let's leave it at that," Bond remarked, sighing heavily, playfully shoving a pillow in Roza's face.

"Right as an export man," Roza teased, laying her head on Bond's chest.

Kissing the top of her head, Bond reached out to the lamp on the elegant night table that was cattycornered next to the bed. As he turned out the light, he laid there, trying to ponder Armonov's next move. He was anxious to stop Armonov because like everyone else that held interest in this mission, he was unsure of when the warheads would be sold. He was uncertain of what the consequences would be if he just decided to blow up these damn nuclear weapons himself. Would he get the opportunity and if so, how many lives would be lost? Would M terminate him from civil service all together? Bond tried not to think about it and hoped, even knew that it probably wouldn't come to that. Closing his eyes, he held Roza tightly in his arms and attempted to fall asleep.

* * *

Hours passed and Bond was awoken, as a cold draft suddenly permeated the room. He rolled over in the bed, only to find it partially vacant. Roza was gone. It took him a moment to realize that the doors to the bedroom's balcony were open. Outside on the landing, Roza stood smoking a cigarette in the same bathrobe she had worn before. Bond grabbed his watch from the night table, checking it. It was four-thirty in the morning.

Bond got out of bed. He slowly walked forward to the balcony with the skill of a sleek predator, noticing Roza's perfect features. He softly grasped her shoulders and massaged, feeling her tense muscles ease suddenly. Cherishing her with his hands, he then wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close to his chest. Roza sighed deeply and rested her head back on his broad chest. With his arms wrapped around her, she felt safe, safer than she had in long time. She purred against his neck. Her dark eyelashes fanned her cheeks before her chocolate eyes batted opened. She smiled slightly.

"You're up early." Bond alluded, as he nuzzled the top of her head, whiffing the delectable smell of her hair.

"I just couldn't sleep. When I think about all the assassinations I've done, none of them compare to him. I used to plan his death, down to the smallest detail, but after a while I gave up because I knew I would never be able to kill him. He's too powerful, too connected. And now if you stop him, I'll be free," Roza proclaimed, hugging Bond tightly.

Bond held her face, looking seriously into her eyes. "He will be stopped darling. I promise."


	8. 7 The Ski Lodge

**Chapter 7 – The Ski Lodge **

Checking out of his hotel room in St. Petersburg very early the next morning, James Bond urgently drove to the headquarters of the Foreign Intelligence Service in Moscow at the insistence of M, who claimed that she had some important information for him. As he stepped inside the situation room where he had met his superiors before, he recognized M, sitting alone behind a desk, doing work as if she was in her own office at MI6.

"Good morning, Bond." M greeted, failing to look up as Bond entered and formally greeted her. She continued writing in a professional log. "First things first, 007, when was the last time you spoke to your contact?"

"Yesterday morning, M. Why? Is there a problem?" Bond sincerely asked as his brows furrowed. He took a seat in front of M's desk somewhat rigidly.

"I'm afraid he's dead, Bond," M uttered. As she finally looked up, their eyes met. "He failed to report last night. Russian Intelligence investigated and traced his last known whereabouts to a tavern in St. Petersburg. The owner declined comment, but it is believed that he got too close, too quickly. Some of Armonov's men frequent that particular bar," M informed, handing Bond a black and white portrait of a man in a black trench coat. _Yuri Zorrovski's killer. _"This man is Boris Pochenko. He's Armonov's right hand."

"Yes, I saw him speak to Armonov last night at the banquet," Bond remembered clearly.

"Pochenko's prints were found on the gun used to kill Mr. Zorrovski. Only…" M trailed off for a second or two. "There was no body. His blood was everywhere, though. Makes no sense."

"No body means he might still be alive," Bond countered.

"007, the gun was found in a pool of blood. We doubt he's alive."

Bond stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He scoffed instead. "Well, that's a smashing bit of detective work they did for their man. A gun in blood means the worse possible explanation? They're not even going to bother to look for him." Bond pronounced with insult toward Russian Intelligence. Hastily deciding he had heard enough, Bond stood and headed for the door.

"007, where are you going?" M asked harshly.

"To find Armonov, once and for all." Bond didn't look back as he headed for the door.

"Sit down, this meeting isn't over," M barked and rose from her chair behind the desk.

Bond sighed and clutched his hand into a fist. With a sigh, he relaxed his grip. "With great respect, M," he turned to face her, "let me go. I'm onto him. Armonov's invited me to stay at his ski lodge for the weekend. It all comes down to how I play my cards. And you know me, M, I never lose."

"What do you think he plans to do with you," M posed, standing up to further emphasize her irritation. "Play a game of chance on _their_ turf with you as the bait? We all know of your adventures in Alpines and Himalayas, Bond, but this is the middle of nowhere in Russia. Every face you see will be loyal to Armonov." M sat down, calming herself in front of her agent, as she could tell nothing she was saying was getting through to the stubborn man in front of her. "Find the bazaar and stop that sale. The Russians want Armonov brought in, but you're a 00, with a license to kill. As always, do what's necessary," she informed soberly. "Well, don't just sit there. You know your mission." M snapped her fingers and nodded to the door. She had just concluded the meeting.

Bond said nothing but nodded his head in respect all the same. Without a second glance in M's direction as he walked toward the door, he left.

* * *

The Lotus moved erratically down a long stretch of uninhabited gravel road as snow fell heavily. Bond was paying more attention to the road map, which Armonov had given him, than the actual road. Driving all day after leaving Moscow, he was now approaching Armonov's lodge in Kursk.

White covered trees surrounded him on both sides and the gray sky loomed menacingly overhead. Yawning, he rubbed his neck to relieve a small cramp as he turned down a barely visible road on the right among the thick turret of trees. As the gravel abruptly became a smooth but icy thoroughfare, the winding path continued at a steady pace until entering a wide, snow-covered driveway that was slightly off to the right. The driveway was at least a quarter-mile in length. As Bond drove the Lotus to the end of the driveway, he pulled the vehicle up next to a massive edifice that qualified for high-style living, a hybrid of brick and steel. The picturesque building didn't resemble any other ski lodge he had resided at, but it was much larger than any resort he'd seen. More like a fortress than a ski lodge, the four story building was wide with ski lifts protruding from each corner of the roof.

Bond exited the car and walked toward the entrance, ignoring the heavy snowfall that saturated his jacket. Stepping inside an elaborately constructed screened-in porch, he shook off the cold snow on his shoulders with a pat of his hand before he knocked heartily on the large timber door. The door swung open a few moments later. Bond hid his surprise as a behemoth of a man in dingy, red attire greeted him.

"Yes?" the man grunted in a gruff whisper.

Bond eyed the man warily but kept his face clear of all emotion. "My name is Bond. I was invited by Armonov to accompany him here this weekend," he replied, a bit intimidated by the larger man.

"Come with me," the stout man simply uttered, stepping aside and allowing Bond entry.

As Bond walked in, his eyes widened at the luxury of the large sitting room branching off the small foyer. A large leather daybed was sandwiched in between two end tables, made of solid gold, in the center of the room. Large oak shelves encased in thick glass bordered the walls, displaying many skiing trophies. At the back of the room was an enlarged door that looked like it gave way to a basement of some sort.

As the large man grunted and nodded toward the winding staircase on the left, Bond obliged the man and walked the marble steps steadily, reaching the second floor.

To his right was an extensive but empty dining hall. A beautiful dining table made of rare marble, complete with tall dining chairs, occupied the center of the rectangular room. Overhead, a radiant diamond chandelier, surrounded by brilliant studio lighting, complimented the sparkling marble. The walls were painted in dark burgundy with gold trim. The back wall was bordered by a tall and elegant wine rack, while ornate sconces placed strategic throughout added a sense of Old-World culture.

From out of nowhere, Armonov appeared at the end of the dining hall. Bond was sure he wasn't standing there the entire time but he had no idea how the man appeared. Not dwelling on the thought, Bond paced confidently toward Armonov, shaking his hand.

"Impressive place you've got here," Bond complemented with a smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Bond." Armonov smiled genuinely, looking around at the grandeur of his dining room. He squinted slightly, causing the scar on his forehead to elongate. "It is lovely to finally have you here. I do hope you have come prepared."

"Yes, my skis are on the rack on my car," Bond told him.

"Excellent. I see you met Franco. Rather big isn't he?" Armonov laughed, referring to the bald man that greeted Bond at the door. "I raised him myself. He was an urchin that I adopted from a traveling circus in Prague. I gave him a home and he gives me protection. He is my personal bodyguard, as well as my servant."

"Interesting relationship," Bond quipped.

"Franco," he turned to his servant, "take our guest's coat." He spread his arms wide to encompass the large room, the colossal lodge fit for a sultan. Franco obeyed his master as Bond shrugged out of the fur. "Franco will show you to your room," Armonov then said with a smile. "Please make yourself at home and I will meet you back here at seven o'clock for dinner."

"That sounds delightful," Bond agreed as he followed Franco to the third floor where the living quarters were.

* * *

At dinner, Bond ate very slowly. He sat directly across from Armonov, who was at the head of the elongated, elliptical table. A fantastic spread of smoked herring with pickled and marinated vegetables and a side of kosher Borodinsky bread adorned the marble top. The spectacular Russian feast was in Bond's honor.

The meal passed with limited conversation, until, as the men were finishing up, Armonov suddenly spoke. "You're not one for conversation, Mr. Bond."

"I do apologize, I am rather hungry," Bond articulated, looking up from his plate.

"Do you know why I brought you here Mr. Bond?"

"I could guess," Bond replied, trying to play it cool.

"Warheads. You have had it out for my operation for a long time," Armonov uttered with a scowl.

"You're referring to Operation Forever," Bond casually replied, unsure as to why Armonov was being so forward.

"Excellent, Mr. Bond." He held eye contact with his guest, his beady eyes trying to intimidate Bond. "I know you're a spy, so there is no use in putting up with this charade any longer. Judging by your accent and prudish manner, I'd say you were British Secret Service."

"You figured it out," Bond muttered with a sarcastic grin.

"Oh and you've come to stop little old me?" Armonov laughed obnoxiously and tossed down his fork.

"I will stop you," Bond assured arrogantly, eating the last of his bread.

"Ah, yes, the hero has come to conquer the villain! That is a cliché I soon hope to destroy, along with you, Mr. Bond. Inviting you here for the weekend was only a ploy, but of course you already know that. I have no intention of letting you leave. You'll die here, Bond."

"You are going to let me finish my meal first?" Bond inquired mockingly.

He tapped his fingers. "You are very amusing. I've always admired that quality in a man. The quality that a man could laugh in the face of danger. But…" he trailed off and his hands open in invitation, "a dieing man is always granted his last request and a last meal. Enjoy," Armonov threatened with a sly smirk.

Bond nodded with faux graciousness and finished eating the mixed vegetables on his plate. "All right, Armonov, if you wish to get down to business, then we shall." He laid his fork down gently. "Where is the bazaar?"

"How may I ask did you know of the Iron Knights headquarters?"

"My government's full of surprises. Now, where is it?"

"Well you'll never find it," he arrogantly replied. "And you'll soon realize that I have a few surprises of my own, Mr. Bond. Your partner, for instance, realized sooner rather than later."

"Yuri?" Bond suddenly shouted, losing his calm façade. "What did you do with him?" He stood from the table in anger, swiftly drawing his gun from inside his jacket.

Armonov laughed at the heroic display before quickly sobering. "You'll rue the day that you threatened Orrin Armonov with a gun," he posed seriously, taking a drink. Standing to meet the threat, he backed away from the table with slow steps. As Armonov waved his hand, Franco appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Bond from behind.

Bond struggled but the brute strength of the man was too much for him to overcome. Franco held him in a clutching grip, almost effortlessly. Bond's weapon clattered on the floor.

"Take Mr. Bond to the dungeon," Armonov ordered. Approaching closer, he picked up the gun and examined it. "A Walther? I haven't seen one of these in a long time. Good choice," he complemented as they all left the dining hall.

* * *

Bond awoke suddenly as droplets of water touched the back of his neck. He couldn't see anything but the darkness was soothing to his pounding headache. Shackled to a wall by his hands and feet, it was the shackles that kept him upright and standing. Shirtless, a cold draft crossed his body and his skin erupted in shivers. At least he still wore his pants.

The last thing he remembered was fighting off that overgrown henchman, Franco. In a moment of sheer panic, Bond tugged on the chains restraining him, trying in vain to get free. The only times he liked being chained was when a buxom woman with sultry eyes knelt above him with a feather whip in her hand. Bond, even in the midst of trouble, smiled dashingly at those memories. He was such a scoundrel, a fact he prided himself on.

Bond suddenly halted his frantic jerks as he heard voices in the surrounding darkness. He had no idea where it was coming from but it was muffled and far away, through an air vent perhaps. Shockingly, he recognized what sounded like Yuri Zorrovski's voice. His partner was alive but, judging by the conversation he was overhearing, Zorrovski had defected. Armonov was instructing him to keep vigilant watch over Bond. He was leaving for the Ural Mountains.

Bond rattled his chains again in order to escape and resume his mission. The links were waning. Suddenly his right hand was free. He kicked and kicked to free his bound legs, but to no avail. He searched the cold, hard ground with his free hand to find something, anything, that could help him. He then remembered a certain gadget Q gave him. He knelt down, reaching desperately for his right shoe. Kicking the shoe off, he found the pen Q had given him, tucked away. With three clicks of the pen, the pitch blackness engulfing him was illuminated by a bright red beam. Bond waved the laser and, as the beam contacted the metal of his restraints, the shackles clanked harmlessly to the damp floor. Once he was finally free, he slowly made his way through the dimness to a large wooden door. The door was locked but, with a simple wave of his gadget, like a magic wand, the door split in two and swung from the hinges.

Up a jagged, rocky staircase, Bond creaked open a barely discernible door. It swung partially open as Bond crept into the luxurious sitting room on the first floor, the first room off from the foyer. He closed the dungeon's access and deactivated the laser-pen, storing it in his pocket. Inching slowly along the back wall, he noticed Zorrovski coming down the stairs and dove behind the large daybed. Unaware of the escape, Zorrovski strolled with harsh purpose across the expansive room. He thrashed opened the dungeon door and disappeared inside. Bond desperately wanted to know what happened to his friend and partner but there was no time. He had to stop Armonov.

En route to his room on the third floor, he entered the bedchamber and snatched his suitcase out from under the four-poster bed. From the case, he grabbed an ivory-colored shirt. Wrapping it around his chilled torso, he quickly buttoned it up to his neck and shrugged on his fur coat that Franco placed in the closet earlier. Tossing his duffle bag over one arm, already stocked with anything and everything he might need to defeat a mastermind, he snuck quietly from his ornate bedchamber for the fourth floor.

On the fourth floor, Bond passed Armonov's private study and entered a massive parlor room. He moved to a set of balcony doors, shielded with heavy red draperies. Softly opening one door to step outside on a large, deluxe landing, he heard helicopter blades far overhead. He was determined to not let Armonov escape. Taking the steps on a nearby access ladder, he climbed the ladder and peeked out over the top to see Armonov and Franco talking several feet from a private chopper. Armonov boarded the aircraft only seconds later. The chopper took off. Bond was too late.

In a final desperate attempt, Bond leapt onto the circular landing pad of the chopper and raced toward the fanning blades. Throwing a small tracking device toward the back of the aircraft, the device struck the tail securely and latched on like an adhesive. The aircraft continued upward. Bond slowed his hurried run once the device connected to the metal of the mechanical bird.

Bond noticed Franco just in time. As the stout man stampeded across the landing pad, he smiled a crooked grin, and like a charging rhino, he grunted and heaved. Bond smoothly bolted out of the way and jumped from the landing, grabbing a hold of the ladder and sliding down the long silver poles until his feet collided hard with the balcony. He bit back a small grunt of pain from the collision and quickly leapt back into the fourth floor's parlor room. Slamming the door shut behind him and locking it, he hurried out of the room and past the locked study, stopping abruptly at the top of the stairs. He stared down the barrel of a gun.

It was Yuri Zorrovski.

"Yuri," Bond exclaimed, breathing heavily. He held up his hands as if in peaceful surrender. "It's me, James." He stared into his eyes and ignored the silver gun glinting his friend's hand. "You've been brainwashed, Yuri. You're loyal to your Mother Russia, as I am to my country of Great Britain and to my beloved Queen. Your mission was to stop these men, not join them."

Zorrovski sneered at Bond with contempt, ignoring his every word. "Back up, back into the parlor room," he ordered, keeping the revolver steady on his target.

Bond quickly glanced around the hall. There was nothing he could use for an advantage. He obeyed the order and backed slowly into the parlor. Franco was waiting on him, hunched over like a prowling beast hell-bent on attacking for his next meal. And from the looks of the behemoth, he could easily swallow Bond whole. Bond desperately sought for a way out. The balcony doors were splintered at the mahogany frames and the glass panels were cracked and shattered. The draperies were slightly torn. It appeared as if Franco had charged in without a care.

And now that Bond looked at the man closely, he noticed a few cuts of blood on Franco silk shirt and a slice across the top of his shaven head. The blood trickled close to his left eyes but failed to hinder his vision. Overall, he looked better than expected. The man was nearly invincible, to crash through glass and barely be harmed.

Bond slowly moved across the room, both men coming at him from opposite sides. Trailing past the vacant fireplace that took up the bulk of one wall, he quickly grabbed a brass fire poker near the rock mantle and hurled it at Zorrovski for distraction. As the man ducked, Franco charged. Bond ran toward the balcony doors and lunged out, grabbing the draperies as he crashed through.

With Franco hot on his tail and Zorrovski firing a shot that ricocheted off the wall, Bond leapt onto the railing of the four-story balcony and looped the fabric through its spokes. He gripped the draperies with both hands and lunged into the air, falling for what seemed like minutes. As he hit the ground, Bond fell forward and rolled, grunting loudly in pain. Forcing his body upright, pain skewered him once he got to his feet. Hobbling around the courtyard and over a short-standing picket fence, he raced to the Lotus as gunshots and angry shouts echoed behind him. It was now time to track Armonov to the weapons bazaar and end this madness once and for all.


	9. 8 The Weapons Bazaar

**Chapter 8 – The Weapons Bazaar **

The next afternoon, Bond was hot on the trail of Armonov. He had made yet another brief appearance in Moscow to see if his superiors at British Intelligence had effectively traced the helicopter that he had tagged with one of Q's tracking devices. M was fully aware of the situation _and_ the exact location of the weapons bazaar.

The Lotus sped down a snowy stretch of road. Feather-like snowflakes fell softly as Bond drove higher and higher into the wilderness of the majestic Ural Mountains. The Ural range seemed endless. He lost count of how many snow-blanketed pastures he had seen. The once green fir trees were covered in layer upon layer of snow with brown branches and scant greenery poking out from various openings in the wonderland of forestry. He glanced upward out of the window to his right and noticed that storm clouds were gathering in the distance, heavy gray clouds full of thick snow.

Bond pushed on the accelerator. As Bond put a cigarette to his mouth, lighting it, his lips twisted into a cold, malicious grimace. Over the course of this mission, he had struggled to not make things personal. He typically kept a professional attitude, but Bond wanted Armonov just as bad as any other villain he had come across in his long career. _Dr. No, Blofeld, Goldfinger, Stromberg, Drax, Largo…_ somehow, Armonov was comparable to them.

And what of the girl, Roza Somovich? He had promised to protect her from Armonov, but knew deep down that it was a sexual ploy. Would he in fact meet her again, or was that just another meaningless affair? He also wondered about Zorrovski. Bond had grown fond of him, but he, through no fault of his own, had defected; a victim of torture and brainwashing and heaven only knew what else. Bond was instructed to kill him as he was of no use to the Russians any longer. Bond scowled at the thought. He hated the throwaway aspect of the job, disposing of defective agents as if they were garbage. It seemed however, that what was good for the service was good for the country.

Bond sighed and pushed aside the thoughts. He focused on Armonov, trying to think of nothing but the mission. He despised the man. There was something about international terrorists who cared little for the fate of the world, favoring personal gain, that didn't set well with him. He pictured the final moment he was to have with Armonov. He was slightly giddy with the notion. Would a gun, a knife, perhaps a fall from a cliff or the spinning metal wings of a chopper be Armonov's downfall? Would he feel pleasure or nothing at all? Killing was a part of living, and in Bond's dangerous line of work, killing also meant surviving.

Bond replayed his mission objectives in his head. He knew that walking into a terrorist arms bazaar and rescuing an assembly of powerful nuclear missiles wouldn't be a walk in the park. The bazaar was so well hidden and probably heavily guarded that Bond was about to be the first outsider to step foot on the grounds.

Pressing harder on the accelerator in an attempt to break from his dark thoughts, Bond tried to relax, knowing that soon the mission would be over, one way or another.

* * *

Hours passed as the Lotus maneuvered steadily along a winding country road that was surrounded by an endless field of snow, somewhere deep in the Ural Mountains. Bond resolutely followed the coordinates and blinking red dot from the GPS on his dashboard. This showed Armonov's location. According to the GPS system, custom built in the Lotus, Bond was close to Armonov's whereabouts, and hence, the weapons bazaar. As Bond looked to his right, the car stalled suddenly. His gaze scaled up a steep mountain face and he squinted at what he saw. Taking a spyglass from the glove compartment, he adjusted the focus of its lens until he viewed the rock face to the right with perfect clarity. As his gaze continued upward, he noticed a ledge at the top of the rock face. On the ledge, he observed a tall and lengthy perimeter fence, and just beyond that was a row of six gigantic oil tanks. A small army of brawny men in the trademark black coveralls, with the sword design on the collar, patrolled the area with various automatic weapons.

His heart pounded slightly with a sense of victory. That was it, he had found the bazaar. It was time to move. Idling the car off the road and under a thick layers of trees for safekeeping, Bond exited the vehicle. Opening the trunk, he removed a lightweight backpack and strapped it to his back. Clad in full black stealth garb, he removed a long corded rope from the trunk with a gloved hand and wrapped it around his arm. The metal buckles and anchors for the rock climbing rope were already strapped to his stealth bodysuit.

Bond seized his Walther from its shoulder holster and screwed on the silencer, pulling back the slide and cocking it. He locked his car and began his trek for the rock face.

* * *

Sometime later, after hiking through the treacherous snow-filled landscape, Bond arrived at the base of the mountainous rock face. Glancing upward, he saw that the rock went as far up as the eye could see. He quickly laced the climbing rope through the buckles, hammered several anchors into the rock, and started to climb.

After sometime, he had reached the top. Pulling himself up onto the ledge of the rock face, Bond stayed as quiet as possible. The gate stood approximately forty meters away from the edge. He tried to look as far past the fence as possible. Behind everything was a mountainous hill. He hypothesized that the arms bazaar was beyond it, and so would be Armonov. Bond moved stealthily. As he arrived at the gate, he quickly shot the goon that was pacing along the inner part of the fence. A headshot took the man down quickly and without a sound. As Bond slid the gate to the left, opening it, he moved closer to the man he had just killed. Holstering his pistol, he exchanged it for the assault rifle that lay next to his dead quarry and moved behind one of the large oil tanks.

He peeked out, noticing two more armed goons talking just beyond the set of oil tanks. He moved out beyond the tanks in plain sight, giving a whistle, and then returning behind them for cover. As the two guards noticed Bond's disruption, they immediately chased him behind the oil tanks. Once they got there, Bond suddenly unloaded the entire clip of ammunition into the two henchmen. As they dropped into the snow, he exchanged the empty gun for one of theirs. Hurriedly, he moved past the oil tanks, diving behind a tree. He knew this wasn't the best situation for stealth, as he was severely out manned and there were few places to hide. He crouched low, trying desperately to not be seen, as he removed a small briefcase from his pack. Opening the case, he armed the C-4 that was inside and removed a small radio-detonator from a pouch on his belt.

Once again, he darted back towards the oil tanks. As he passed the crowd of henchmen that were on the other side of the field, he purposely fired the automatic rifle he had towards them, actually hitting one goon in the leg. As he maneuvered past the oil tanks, he quickly tossed the briefcase near them. He then ran back through the gate, getting out of range of the tanks. He watched the henchmen approach, including the sniper from atop the tower that was just beyond the hill, each of them firing towards Bond. As the crowd got within range of the oil tanks, Bond pressed the detonator. Instantly the briefcase exploded, setting off the tanks in a tremendous flare-up. As the inferno from the tanks instantly engulfed the approaching henchmen, Bond watched as the fire suddenly settled, continuing to burn. The oil tanks were now demolished. He began moving cautiosly through the gated outpost that he had just neutralized, trying to reach the top of the hill There was no time to lose, as Bond had to stop the sale of those warheads.

* * *

Later, Bond stood at the top of the snowy hill, hidden partially behind a large pine tree. On the other side of the hill, below it in the distance, was a snowy field. Bond looked through his spyglass, instantly noticing countless henchmen on either side of the desolate field below him. In the middle stood a colossal black chopper. As he continued to look, his eye caught Armonov and the Iron Knights at the left of the aircraft and a horde of about twenty-five Middle Eastern chaps to the right, divided neatly into two crowds. On either side of Armonov, two more familiar faces, Boris Pochenko, Zorrovski's killer was on his right, and Roza Somovich stood to his left. Bond smiled, thinking back to that night with her at the hotel. He thought to himself that if he could, maybe he would try to help her, to get her away from Armonov for good. But he wouldn't sacrifice the mission.

As he continued to watch, a representative from the Middle Eastern crowd of terrorists met with Armonov, joining at the center of the field. Armonov opened a briefcase and removed a document. Bond zoomed in with the spyglass, reading the document's header. It was a false deed to the warheads. Armonov was planning on double-crossing his fellow terrorists. As he handed the deed to the Middle Eastern chap, Armonov received a briefcase full of money. Armonov accepted it casually, handing it to Pochenko for inspection. Everyone seemed satisfied and just at that moment, a second chopper appeared from out of nowhere, hovering as it delivered the warheads behind the stationary chopper. The Iron Knights henchmen began to release the cluster of warheads from the corresponding towing cables. Once the warheads were securely grounded, the hovering chopper flew away. After several of the Middle Eastern terrorists had connected numerous towing cables from the remaining chopper to the cluster of missiles, Armonov blatantly pulled out a revolver and shot the apparent leader of the rival terrorists. Without warning several armed Middle Eastern men began firing their guns toward the Iron Knights. Pochenko and Roza instantly began shooting their own weapons at their opponents. Several henchmen from either side began brutally firing round after round from their automatics, toward their rivals, careful to not upset the cluster of nuclear weapons that were near them. Each party used the chopper that divided them for cover, but it was soon apparent that the Iron Knights had gained the upper hand.

* * *

As one might expect from such an intense but brief firefight, bodies began to pile up on both sides, but when all was said and done, the Iron Knights had prevailed. The only ones left standing were Armonov, Roza, Pochenko and several Iron Knights. They began to commandeer their rival terrorists helicopter. Once they were all inside, Bond began vigorously sprinting down the hill. He couldn't let them get away.

As he reached the chopper, he hurriedly disconnected the towing cables from the feet of the helicopter. As the chopper began its lift off, Bond gripped the feet of the chopper. As it quickly ascended through the trees, Bond removed the straps from his back, situating his backpack in front of him. Careful to not lose his grip on the pack, he opened it, pulling out a small sticky-bomb. As he tried to adhere it to the jet, the door to the chopper opened.

"It's Bond," one of the henchmen called out. "And where are the warheads?" the goon stuttered idiotically. No one had realized the lack of weight from the absence of the warheads.

A goon immediately lunged out of the aircraft, latching onto the chopper feet and kicking Bond in the face. Letting out a grunt, Bond suddenly fell backward, hanging from the chopper with only his right hand. The helicopter continued to move higher and higher. The goon removed the bomb from the side of the chopper, hurling it into the trees below. Bond suddenly grabbed him with his left hand, pulling himself upward. As they stared face to face, the goon spit in Bond's face, head butting him. Bond collapsed back again, pulling his foe with him. As the goon was pulled forward, he lost grip of the chopper feet and desperately grabbed for Bond. As Bond purposely dropped, hanging onto the chopper feet by both hands, the goon fell also, hanging by nothing but Bond's boots. Bond immediately pulled a small knife from his pocket, cutting at his bootlaces. As they loosened, he relinquished his boots, causing the henchman to plummet through the cold Russian air.

Bond hurriedly pulled himself up to the ajar door of the helicopter. As he looked in, he saw three henchmen, one was a pilot, Roza, Pochenko and Armonov. He tried to climb in, but was instantly kicked in the head by another goon. As he was kicked, Bond grabbed the goons foot, and dragged him out of the chopper, throwing him from the aircraft. He hurriedly climbed in, delivering an instant right hook the final goon.

"James," Roza uttered excitedly, wrapping her arms around Bond.

"Later darling," Bond countered, tossing the final henchman out the door.

The pilot immediately ascended the plane, pushing Bond further toward the ajar door. Bond battled the wind resistance to shut the door, but finally the gaping entrance was closed. Pochenko came at Bond from the back of the chopper, wrapping a thick wire around his neck, trying to choke him. Bond pulled the knife that he had used to cut his boots off and thrusts it behind him, stabbing Pochenko in the neck. Pochenko let out a loud cry of pain, as his grip was released. Bond swiftly turned, punching Pochenko hard in the face.

"That's for Yuri," Bond stated coldly.

The trench-coated man fell backward as Bond turned his attention toward Armonov, pulling his gun.

"You've lost Armonov. The Iron Knights are finished," Bond declared aiming the Walther at Armonov.

"Wrong Mr. Bond. You have beaten me yes, taken the warheads from me, but I am still the most powerful terrorist on the planet. You can destroy the man, but the name Orrin Armonov will live on forever. The Iron Knights are an idea. Stalin died long ago, but his contributions to my country still live on to this day."

"You're mad," Bond uttered, pressing harder on the trigger.

"Yes, well you haven't won yet," Armonov claimed, pulling a switchblade knife and putting it to Roza's neck, shielding himself from harm. "Drop the gun," he ordered.

"Let her go," Bond countered.

"You won't kill me Mr. Bond. Drop it."

Bond continued to aim the gun in the direction of Armonov and Roza, then suddenly pointed it to the front of the chopper and pulled the trigger. The pilot fell forward in his seat and the chopper suddenly stalled. Without warning, Armonov slid the blade across her neck, cutting Roza's throat. Bond shot Armonov in the face, quickly moving to Roza. Seeing that she was instantly dead, he moved to the front of the plane. As he gained control of the aircraft, he turned it around. Radioing to M, he informed her of the situation.

"Bond to MI6, come in."

"M here, go ahead Bond," a voice sounded from over the controls.

"M, Armonov is dead. The warheads are sitting in a field near the bazaar. The Russians can reclaim them. The Iron Knights have dissolved."

"Smashing Bond. What's your present location?"

"I'm in a heli, flying over the Ural Mountains."

"Right, return the chopper to Foreign Intelligence Headquarters in Moscow. The Russians really want the body of Armonov," M informed.

"Understood," Bond said with a sense of cheer in his voice.

"I'll see you back here at MI6 in the morning. Good job 007. M out."

"Thank you ma'am," Bond uttered smiling. As he turned off the controls, he continued flying, as the helicopter flew through the snow-covered mountains en-route to Moscow.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue- Rest and Relaxation **

The next morning, the elevator door shifted suddenly, as Bond stepped into the familiar corridor that led to M's office. Hastily entering the reception area to M's office, he greeted Moneypenny with a rose.

"James!" Moneypenny exclaimed with a breathless sigh. of excitement. "How sweet," the middle-aged buxom brunette pronounced with a smile.

"More and more beautiful with each passing day" Bond uttered charmingly.

"You better go in," the secretary informed with a flirtatious smile.

Wasting no time, Bond passed through the two doors into M's office and, as usual, found M behind her elaborate oak desk working.

"Congratulations, Bond," she smiled up at him, in a rare moment of compassion. "The Russian's recovered the warheads and you're going to be rewarded for your valor.

Bond stepped forward, taking a seat in one of two visitor's chairs in front of M's desk. "I do thank you M," Bond pronounced, "but it's not all good news. The girl, Roza Somovich, Armonov killed her."

"Oh come off it Bond," M returned to her usual shrewdness. "You just prevented a war and possibly the deaths of millions. Must all of your missions be tainted by the casualties of this profession?"

"I am sorry M," Bond apologized, realizing that he was being unprofessional.

"Oh, if it means that much to you, you can take a short leave," M offered, as her stern glare met Bond's boyish stare. "Go to Jamaica and get drunk for all I care. Drown your sorrows, just be ready for your next mission by the end of a week."

"Understood. Thank you ma'am," Bond said with a playful smile. He turned, and with that, he exited the office.

**The End… James Bond Will Return.**


End file.
